Resonating Light
by Spirit-hime
Summary: At a decisive moment in battle, Kunzite chooses to take a very different path. Now he must do all that he can to save the person who he was born to protect. Manga-based, semi AU.
1. Chapter 1

Resonating Light

By Spirit-hime

Chapter 1: Prologue

***

Memories engraved in the past...

the sad past...

BAM he was down. Almost dead. Almost, but not quite. She was screaming his name. His true name. The name that he had not heard in centuries, but which stirred in his soul some deep, ancient feeling; some part of himself that had always been within him, and only now had been found. Just the sound of that name brought back the smell of a distant land--a land of lush trees and running water, of magic and holy things and mythical creatures. His name. His real name...

"Endymion..."

But all was darkness.

***

But for another, all was light. Bright, white light that flashed like perpetual lighting, that lit the world brighter than daylight. It was a light that could not be seen only with the eyes, but which was felt, tasted, smelled... overflowing the senses in a brilliant cacophony of perceptions. It was hot, cold, sweet, bitter, roaring and whispering all at once. It was stronger than any sun, grander than any heavenly body that could be found in the celestial plane. It was the light of the Ginzuishou.

For a few deadly moments, he was so overwhelmed that he was certain that he was dying. He stared at his hands, some part of him expecting them to disintegrate before him. But the hands remained in his view--a little calloused, perhaps, but perfectly intact, nonetheless. And then he was no longer concerned about his hands, because there before him, back from the dead, were three walking corpses. Except they were not corpses--they were alive, real, breathing. They were staring, their eyes wide, appearing as confused as he felt. But something in all of them was remembering. Some tiny, minute part of them that had never been destroyed.

"We were reborn on the surface to find our master... Where is our master?"

"Endymion..."

The memories came like a tidal wave. Everything they once were, everything they lost. The memories were as blinding as that holy light and yet, like the light, brought sudden clarity.

The bodies were melting, the corpses becoming corpses once again. Walking, dying corpses. And then there was nothing left save three precious, ordinary stones. He gripped the rocks in his hand, feeling the smooth, cool surfaces. He whispered their names one by one. Nephrite, Jadeite, Zoisite...

The light was fading. It was falling, like a teardrop, into the man who lay, like a fourth corpse, in the darkness. The light was inside him now, hidden beneath layers of black fabric.

The stillness that followed was like a void, so silent that he felt as though he had gone deaf.

"Kunzite! Now! Take the princess and the Ginzuishou for the Dark Kingdom!" The voice tore through the silence like the screeching of metal being twisted and torn upon itself.

He hesitated, staring at the man with the ebony hair and the angelic white being who hovered over his prone form. The Prince and the Princess...

"Kunzite! What are you waiting for?!"

He raised a hand, and two women in colorful costumes leaped in front of his beam, shielding the white creature from attack. _But I notice you made no attempt to save him,_ he thought with a sneer, as the unconscious man was snatched from the arms of the goddess and into his outstretched arms. He shifted the man's weight close to him, feeling his warmth through the thick fabric of his tuxedo. Blood had soaked through his jacket, staining the grey uniform that he was now pressed against. His face appeared deceptively restful, too deep in his state of unconsciousness to feel the pain that arched through his body.

"Hurry, Kunzite! Return to the Dark Kingdom!"

He watched that face, the normally dark skin turned pale, the striking blue eyes like reflections of Earth hidden behind thickly lashed lids. Bring him back to the Dark Kingdom. Bring him back, and... condemn him. Prince... my Prince...

"Kunzite!"

"Endymion... hang on."

He pulled the man close against his chest, ignoring the screams of the abandoned Princess. Light surrounded them both, fading into darkness and shadows. They dissipated into the shadows, and were gone.

*****

Author's notes

Hello, and thank you for taking the time to read Resonating Light! This fanfiction has been my baby for the past four years, and as I feel myself winding down on it, I felt that it was time to finally present it to a wider audience. Before I go any further, I must thank the readers who have been absolutely amazing in sticking with me all this time and giving me the encouragement, criticism, and ass-kicking that I needed to make this fic happen. Thank you to Elianthos and Veve especially, for being fantastic, as well as Scarlet Avatar, Roses Ablaze, Sage, and all the others who have dropped by to let me know they were reading. Because of these people, this fanfiction will someday be complete.

This prologue was my way of jumping straight into the action of the manga while giving quick snapshots of the state of the characters. I wanted to see what would happen if one very critical moment in the manga turned differently, if Kunzite didn't go back to obeying Beryl after the ginzuishou appeared and brought back his memories. Since this particular chapter is basically a rewrite of a manga scene, I wanted to blaze through it breathlessly to give a sense of the whirlwind it must have felt like. Future chapters will be much more meaty in terms of description and introspection. I was more interested in character interaction and development for this fic than in action.

I hope you'll stick around and enjoy the rest!


	2. Chapter 2

Resonating Light

By Spirit-hime

Chapter 2

***

Darkness. Stillness. The dead hours between midnight and morning. After that violent, earth-shattering light, the pale city lights seemed dull and sickly. They were the only thing that lit that small room. The unnatural orange of it filtered in through the dusty window, falling on a pale face.

He was sleeping now. The bleeding had stopped a few hours ago, but he still looked the color of dried grass, pale and fragile. Beneath the blankets, he wore only the black pants from his shredded and soiled tuxedo. His torso was a canvas of red and white--blood-soaked bandages that neatly bound his wounds. Sweat slicked his face, glistening in the wan light and soaking through his black bangs.

Kunzite sat nearby, pale silver eyes on the sleeping Prince. He had not moved from that spot for quite a while, stirring only to check on him, to adjust a bandage or smooth the blankets. He was a gargoyle in the shadows, a silent guard cast in stony shades of gray. Streams of white hair fell in his face, glistening in the dim light even as it cast his eyes into shadow. The blood still stained his gray uniform, but he cared very little about that.

Finding accommodations for the injured man had proven difficult, and Kunzite had ended up using more than a few of his less honorable powers to do so. An ordinary hotel or apartment would not have been safe, and for that matter, he had little money at his disposal. He and the other three members of the group that had once been called the Shitennou had maintained an ordinary bank account for emergencies, though why they would ever wish to buy something when they could simply conjure up whatever they needed had been beyond all of them. Now he was thankful for the funds they had kept, meager as they were. He would need every resource at his disposal in the days to come.

In the end, he had managed to find an abandoned building. It was livable, if not comfortable, and would allow them to remain hidden from the casual eye. Perhaps it was not fit for royalty, but under the circumstances, it was the best he could hope to do for his Prince. Upon arriving, he had immediately encased the place in every sort of shield and protection that he could produce. It would not protect them if Beryl attacked directly, but it would prevent anyone from tracking them here, and hold off all but the strongest attacks.

So now, here they were, and there was nothing left to do but wait. Wait for morning. Wait for the man he called his master to wake up--if indeed he ever did.

In a way, the solitude was a blessing. He needed the time to himself, to think, to remember... his memories were still patchy. Some moments in his past came to him with such perfect clarity that remembering them was like living them all over again. The haunting jingle of golden chimes on a breezy autumn afternoon. The thick, sweet scent of some delicate white flower long extinct. Crushed grass beneath heavy boots. Footsteps echoing in endlessly high archways. The soft warmth of a hand brushing his face. Colorful light filtering through stained glass. The sound of steel hitting bone.

Other memories were not so clear. They came in passing; vague apparitions that brought barely a tingle of emotion, some distant remembrance, and then were gone again. When he tried to assemble his past in order, he found the task difficult. Great chunks seemed to be missing out of his personal history, the timeline flickering in and out of darkness like a dying flashlight. Scenes of his life that seemed to fit in one point of time later proved to be completely out of place.

He closed his eyes, willing away the confused and jumbled images that somehow made up his life. It did not matter, anyway. He had remembered the most important things of all--who he was, and who the man sleeping before him was. That was all he really needed to know. As long as he had that to hold onto, nothing else was important.

The black-haired prince groaned softly, shifting in his sleep. Kunzite gently laid a cool hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

How long had he been in the Dark Kingdom? Years? Centuries? Had he always been there, sealed away along with that loathsome sun demon, or was he, like his prince, reborn into this world? Could he have been an ordinary human being once, with parents, siblings, a job, school, and all those other mundane things that define most humans' lives? Those painfully ordinary things that he had, for so long, been watching as an outsider, as an alien to this planet? Or was he a mere fabrication of Metallia, no more than an especially powerful youma? Neither thought was pleasant. On one hand, he had lost something precious. On the other, he never had it in the first place. His stomach twisted when he considered it.

Regardless of how he had come to exist in this life, it was the past life that concerned him now. His memories faded back, back into the icy darkness of the Dark Kingdom. And beyond the darkness, deep beyond the centuries, was a light, and that light was golden. It was that light that he held onto now, regardless of how many millennia of darkness separated it from him. It was all he had.

The night was cold, that last morning chill before dawn permeating the small, dusty room. He drew his cape around him, holding in what warmth he could. Normally he did not feel the cold--at least, not the ordinary cold of a world without Metallia. It was a sort of gift that he had had for as long as he could remember. But on this night, with the darkness all around him and the stars obscured by clouds, he longed for warmth.

As he shifted in his place on the bare floor, he felt some sharp object jab his thigh though his pants pocket. They were still there, the three stones that were now all that was left of his comrades. Someday, perhaps very soon, he would join them in their earthly graves. Until then, he alone would mourn their passing, and feel with a cold ache in his chest that the blame for their deaths was entirely on his shoulders.

He held the three semi-precious minerals in his palm, the smooth, cool surfaces sliding easily against his skin. If he had known nothing else about these stones, he would have still found them beautiful. One a vibrant, almost glowing green. One a dark, deep green, ribbed with whitish rings. One a shimmering, transluscent blue. Each one unique in shape, texture, weight. Each one shining in the weak light. So beautiful...

He clenched the rocks in his fist, jagged edges digging into his skin. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry..."

"Kunzite."

The stones fell clattering to the floor, scattering somewhere in the shadows. He stared into the darkness, past the futon which held the sleeping prince. Three ghostly figures stood before him, exactly how he had last seen them. No, that was not quite true. They were insubstantial, ethereal, like visions out of a dream, brilliantly dressed in white and gold, thick brown capes sweeping back behind them. Their eyes no longer held the dull, hollow looks of men who had had their humanity stolen from them, but a fierce, intelligent brightness that he knew so well. Tiny motes of light danced around them, softly glowing as they drifted through the darkness, alighting the shadows and fading to nothingness as soon as they came in contact with anything solid. The three men loomed above him, standing tall and with that same nobility that they had once had.

And he... he was kneeling on the cold floor in the darkness, blood stains on his jacket and his hands, his head bent and his eyes hollow behind the hair that obscured them. They held more dignity in death than he possibly could in life.

"It's alright, Kunzite," Zoisite said gently, his blond ponytail falling across one shoulder.

The white-haired man began to reach out for them, then stopped himself and retracted his hand. He would not be able to touch them, much as he wanted to hold them just then. Much as he wanted them to hold him. "Guys..." he whispered desperately instead, "you don't know how... how sorry I am..."

"Please, Kunzite." They were kneeling too, speaking with him eye-to-eye. Between the transparent phantoms with their dazzling white uniforms and the man in his faded gray one, a prince lay sleeping on his futon, oblivious to the guardians who spoke over him. "Please, that's all in the past now. Don't worry about that anymore."

"I have to worry about it. If I hadn't..." his head fell into his hand, silver-white hair falling in streams across his face, "this is all my fault."

"It doesn't matter now," Jadeite said calmly, with a shake of his short blond hair. Far more calmly than Kunzite remembered him being much of the time. Maybe Kunzite was just so used to being the one in control that it shocked him to see Jadeite handling things better.

"What's important is him," Nephrite amended, and no one asked who 'him' was. They all knew.

"Our Prince..." Zoisite said softly, his attention on the black-haired man between them. "How is he?"

Kunzite watched him as well, though he appeared no less sickly than he had looked hours ago. "He's very weak," he answered, his words only slightly strangled. "He was badly injured, but some power is sustaining him. When I..." he paused, took a breath, "when it happened, a piece of the Ginzuishou entered his body. I think that must have been keeping him alive until now. If... if it lasts, he may be able to hold on long enough to recover."

Zoisite nodded. "His powers aren't what they used to be, but he must still have his healing abilities. If he can just hold out until he's started to heal..." He caught the look on Kunzite's face. "He'll be alright, Kunzite."

Kunzite shook his head. "You don't know that. Even if he survives the next few days... how long do you think it'll be before Beryl tracks us here? A few days? A week?"

"Maybe. Maybe longer," Nephrite answered without hesitation. He was not going to lie to his old leader; things really were as bleak as they looked. "She'll be distracted by other things now. The sailor senshi will keep her busy, and with the Princess and the Ginzuishou in sight, she'd be a fool not to concentrate all her energy on them."

"Beryl _is_ a fool. A vengeful one. That filthy woman holds a grudge like no other. If her lust for Endymion isn't enough to send her knocking on our door, her fury at my treachery will be. No, she's a woman who thinks with her body, and not her head. She'd give up even a chance at the Ginzuishou to have us."

"I'm not so sure about that," Jadeite replied. "Metallia will be more difficult to handle now. Beryl will have a hard time following her own selfish ambitions with a powerful demon goddess breathing down her neck."

Kunzite still looked dubious. "Be that as it may, it's only a matter of time before she comes after us. And when that happens..." one of the little light motes had drifted near his face, the calm glow reflected in his silver hair and the pinkish spodumene drop earring that hung from his ear. He turned away from it, almost flinching as the tiny drop of light landed on his cheek. It flickered slightly, then faded away, the strange warmth of it lingering on his skin. "When that happens," he continued, his voice scratchy, "I won't be any use to him. Some part of me still belongs to her. When she finds me, all she has to do is command me, and I'll be hers again. I'll be my Prince's enemy."

He could feel their eyes on him, heavy with their sympathy, their unjudging looks. If anyone could understand the pain, the guilt, the hopelessness, it was them. They had all been in his situation, after all.

"But that hasn't happened yet, so you need to keep some hope." Zoisite was smiling reassuringly at him. "You've been given a chance to protect him, Kunzite, even if it is only temporary. And that is more than any of us could have wished for."

Nephrite nodded. "To be honest, Kunzite, if any one of us were given this chance, I'm glad it's you. You'll do a better job of protecting him than any of us could have hoped to do."

Kunzite slowly shook his head, his eyes on the man laying before him. "I can't do much for him. Buy him some time, only. I only hope it will be enough."

"You've already done a lot for him," said Jadeite. "If not for you, he'd be sitting in that witch's lair right now. Even if you had done nothing else, that in itself was enough to rescue him from Beryl's grasp, and it might be the one thing that saves him."

"I hope so." Kunzite reached across his Prince's prone form, rough fingers gently brushing the sweaty bangs out of his eyes. Endymion sighed in his sleep, but made no other response to his guardian's touch. Despite all his comrades' reassurances, the white-haired man still felt completely helpless right now. He was a trained soldier, a warrior and guardian to Earth's most precious possession, and yet here he was, unable to do anything except hide in some corner, like a rat. "I can't protect him alone," he muttered. "I'm powerless."

"You won't be alone," Zoisite said firmly. "We have very little power now, and can't do much. But what we can do, we will. You can be sure of that."

Kunzite nodded, somehow reassured. "We will need all the help we can get. If you could support him until he's recovered..."

"We'll do that," Nephrite replied. "And we'll make sure that barrier of yours holds."

"Don't lose faith, Kunzite," Zoisite said gently. "We're all still here in spirit, if not in body. You're not alone here."

"Thank you." Even as the words left Kunzite's mouth, they were leaving him, fading into the dust and scattered shadows. The last dancing motes of light fizzled out, leaving him to the darkness and the silence and the unconscious man with the ebony black hair. Despite Zoisite's words, he certainly felt alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Resonating Light

By Spirit-hime

Chapter 3

***

It was only in the chill hours of morning, when the light seeped, cold and weak, through the dusty window, and the platinum clouds hid the breaking dawn from the eyes of Tokyo, that he finally began to stir. Kunzite had sat with him through the long hours of the night, had watched the sky gradually brighten as the minutes ticked by; the only sign that time was actually passing.

The black-haired Prince groaned softly, stirring beneath the blankets. The movement brought on a sharp gasp of pain, and Kunzite was already by his side, hand gently stroking his face. "Shh, it's alright now. Just lie still." His voice was a deep, soft growl that was warm and comforting like velvet.

Endymion's eyes opened slightly, and those deep blue eyes like spheres of polished sapphires met his, so identical to the eyes that he remembered that Kunzite's breath caught in his throat. He looked dazed as he stared at his surroundings, and Kunzite could see that he was not entirely awake.

"Endymion-sama?" That sharp blue gaze returned to his face, piercing even despite the sleep that lingered in them. The Prince stared at him a few moments, seeking some sort of recognition.

And then the recognition came, and--to Kunzite's own horror--fear. He could see it in the way that his eyes suddenly widened, the way his breathing, already a little labored, quickened, and the color drained from his already pale face. Kunzite realized what it must look like--that the man who had attempted to kill his beloved, who had nearly killed _him_, who was the very reason for him being in this position right now, was looming over him, and he himself was injured and defenseless. Kunzite suddenly felt himself flood with sympathy for the man, though it had been a very long time since he had felt such a thing.

"Don't be afraid," he said quickly. "No one's going to hurt you. You're safe here."

"Who are you?" The Prince asked groggily, still watching the white-haired man with a mixture of fear and mistrust.

"My name's Kunzite. I'm your--I'm a friend. You have nothing to fear from me. I won't harm you." He could see that his words were having very little effect--and why should they? For all his Prince knew, he really was the enemy. "Please believe me," he continued softly, almost desperately. "I know what you must think of me, but I swear to you, I am no enemy of yours. I'm here to help you."

"Where's... where's Usako?" He glanced around the empty room, as though she may be hiding in a corner somewhere.

"Usako? Is that... Princess Serenity? Don't worry, she's safely with her guardians. You protected her well. She's completely unharmed."

"Serenity. I remember..."

"Yes?" Kunzite prompted. He needed his Prince to remember. Not just Serenity, but everything. He needed to know who he was, what he was capable of. And he hoped, a little selfishly perhaps, that some part of him would remember his old guardian.

Anything the black-haired Prince was about to say dissolved behind another wince of pain. Kunzite sighed, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it now. Just get some rest. There will be time enough later to remember." Kunzite only hoped that was true.

"I... need to get to her... Serenity..." He was already slipping out of consciousness, despite his own protests.

Kunzite ran his fingers through the thick strands of black hair. "It's alright, Prince. Sleep now. Just sleep." His eyes slid closed, lapis lazuli vanishing behind thick eyelashes, and Kunzite could feel him sink back into the dark, dreamless void of the physically exhausted.

The white-haired man sat back on his heels, swallowing his disappointment. At least he was making some sort of progress. Despite how badly he had been injured the night before, it looked like he really would pull through. Kunzite did not dare feel any sort of relief at this thought, however. He did not dare to have much hope for anything, at this point.

And now, as before, there was nothing left to do but wait. But unlike the long, bleak waiting of the dark hours of the night, the daylight, dim though it was, brought with it a sort of optimism, and a newfound sense of purpose. He became restless, no longer content to merely sit by in the shadows. He paced the room, watched the streets through the dusty little window, repeatedly checked his barrier for flaws. No longer weighed down by the shadows of the night, he found himself searching for any menial task available in order to keep his mind and hands occupied.

The sun scaled the vast platinum dome outside, finally making a sparkling appearance through a ragged patch of blue. He had wiped most of the caked dust from the window, though it seemed that nothing could wash away the thin brownish layer of grime that coated it, and swept away the piles of dirt that covered the floor. Goodness knows how a building could fall into such disuse in Tokyo, where wasting space was almost considered a sin, but Kunzite did not ask questions. Records showed that it was not set to be demolished for some time, so as long as they remained undiscovered, the place was theirs to inhabit for the time being.

The young Prince spent much of the time in his unconscious stupor, the sound of his slow, rhythmic breathing the only sign of life out of him. A few moments brought him back to the waking world, but these times were brief, flickers in the dark, and Kunzite was unable to get any more words out of him after that first conversation. At the very least, he seemed to be improving, and by the time late afternoon rolled around, and the sun was beginning its warm, comfortable descent, even Kunzite had to allow himself to believe that his prince was going to live.

***

When he opened his eyes, the first sight that greeted him was the golden evening light that tumbled through the grimy little window, catching little dust motes and scattering long shadows about the room. The room itself was small, unfurnished save the soft Japanese futon he was neatly tucked into, and smelled of dust and old age. The walls must have been white once, but were now various shades of yellow and brown, with a vast assortment of cracks and signs of water damage near the ceiling. Though the faded wood floor seemed to have been recently swept, he could still see the thick cobwebs higher up, tangled amongst the shadows. At the moment, he was the room's only inhabitant.

He had no idea how long he had been here, or for how long he had been out. Memories twisted at his gut: blinding light and unbearable pain and strange new emotions that had been lying dormant for what seemed his entire life, and Her...

Chiba Mamoru squeezed his eyes shut, taking a firm rein on his thoughts. No, best not to get worked up just yet. He needed to clear his head, needed to assess the situation, needed to _think_. Carefully, he laid out the issue in his mind, framing and organizing the information, as though his near-mortal encounter, the discovery of his soulmate, his memories spanning thousands of years and more, his possible kidnapping by an evil organization bent on world domination, were all merely facts in a typical textbook equation.

The future doctor in him won the argument for most important issue, and he immediately turned his attention to his injuries. Breathing was still a painful experience, and he tentatively ran a hand across the source of the sharp pain in his left shoulder. The wound was probably deep, and fell just shy of his heart--not exactly the healthiest place to be struck by a giant beam of energy--but, to his own surprise, was already neatly bandaged and cared for. _Well, of course. How else could I survive an injury like that?_ Still, the revelation was rather disconcerting. Why injure him, capture him, and then treat the same injury that they had inflicted upon him in the first place?

Which brought him to the next important issue on his list. Unless that memory of the white-haired man kneeling over him was merely a dream, then there was no doubt as to where he was right now. Granted, this decrepit, crumbling room hardly looked the way that he would expect the Dark Kingdom to look, but who could account for evil's taste in interior design? And if that was the case, then he was, as some of his classmates would have called it, in deep shit. The fact that they had treated his wounds did very little to ease his fears; if anything, it was even more unnerving. He had seen war movies, darn it; he knew what was done to torture victims. If they wanted him alive, then obviously they planned to use him for something. Perhaps he was being used as a hostage, in which case, Usako might be bargaining for his life even as he lay here. Or maybe they planned to extract information from him, though there was only one important piece of information that he knew he needed to hide, and that was Sailor Moon's identity. His thoughts froze there. Had he inadvertently mentioned her name already? He could not remember anything that was said when he had woken up. He knew that he had been worried for her--of course he had--but what if, in his incoherent state, he had let her other, more secret name slip?

Either way, the damage may have already be done, and there was little he could do about it now. The important thing was to concentrate on getting out. He may not have had the strength of a sailor senshi, but he still had some of his own tricks, and he would not sit idly by while these hellish creatures used him for their sadistic purposes.

He began to push himself up off the futon, and nearly fell back again as the room did a flip-flop around him. He gritted his teeth, pushing himself up despite the throbbing, grinding pain that twisted at his frame and the nausea-inducing lightheadedness that caused the floor to lurch beneath him. When his vision began to fade into blackness and he felt his limbs go weak, he knew he had no choice but to stop. Panting and shaking through the sweat that glistened on his tanned skin, he slumped back against the wall behind him, halfway into a sitting position. Stars danced behind his eyelids, little fireworks bursting in white and purple and red. It was no use; he could no more get himself to his feet than he could launch himself to the moon. Escaping in this condition was pretty close to impossible right now; not unless it involved someone carrying him past the Dark Kingdom defenses on a gurney.

Bunching his hand into an angry fist, he pounded the wall behind him, sending a flurry of broken plaster sprinkling to the floor. No matter what he did, no matter who he had once been or who he was supposed to be now, he was still completely helpless. He was alone in the dark, blind and voiceless, and as before, completely useless. He clutched at the floor, willing himself to sit up or lay down or do _something_, but all Mamoru could do was remain panting against the cold wall, waiting for his breathing to even out, and for someone to appear and carry out whatever sadistic plans they had for him.

Nothing made him feel more pathetic.

***

Kunzite carefully mounted the dilapidated stairs, keeping an eye out for that one broken step that had nearly sent him sprawling on the way down. At least they were climbable; it would certainly be a waste of energy to have to hover his way up the stairwell every time he bothered to go for a food run.

A plastic bag rustled at his side, its contents sending a wide assortment of mouthwatering aromas wafting throughout the deserted hallways. He could not even remember the names of half the food items he now carried, but he knew some of them involved some form of noodle. He had no idea what sort of food his Prince would like now, and so had opted to buy a wide assortment of dishes from the nearby takeout place.

At some point during the day, it had occurred to him that his Prince would be hungry. This revelation had come partially out of his own unusual feeling of emptiness, which had rather confounded him at first. Eating was not a common practice at the Dark Kingdom--Metallia's energy offered somewhat of a replacement for normal food consumption, and being that only a very small fraction of the population was human, the regular finding and storing of food was considered a waste of time and energy, and thus was not encouraged. The Shitennou had still eaten purely for the enjoyment of it, and Beryl did like her wine, but it had been a long time since Kunzite had even thought about eating. Now his prolonged stay beyond the Dark Kingdom's borders was bringing back all those trivial aspects of human life that he had forgotten about, and that included regularly forcing oneself to consume something that resembled food, even if it did come from a greasy restaurant that smelled like old cooking oil.

He was not sure whether eating takeout for the next few days was the wisest move, but he had found the kitchen to be somewhat inadequate for fine dining, and for that matter, he could not remember the last time he had attempted to use a stove (or really, if he ever had). So for the sake of his Prince's wellbeing and his own dignity, buying all of their meals was probably the safest idea.

He had also realized, upon reaching the muggy, overheated streets and noticing a few curious glances, that walking around in public with a sweeping white cape--especially when one is six foot four, crowned in long white hair, and positively imposing even when among monsters that could give the most well-adjusted human being nightmares for a month if he so much as glared at them--is not highly recommended for blending into the streets of Tokyo. Thus, he also had to use some of that carefully-hoarded money to purchase a new shirt. The pants and boots of his typical grey uniform could stay, as they appeared rather ordinary, but the heavy jacket with the elaborate epaulettes and high collar, along with the cape that shone brilliantly in the sunlight, just simply would not do.

He now tugged uncomfortably at the royal blue shirt he wore (the nice sales lady had insisted that _everyone_ was wearing them), feeling rather naked without the extra ten pounds of fabric hanging off of his shoulders. To make himself feel better, he left the top few buttons undone in a most finicky manner, even though this move seemed to earn him more looks from the female (and occasionally male) populace than it may have otherwise done. With the sleeves rolled up to relieve some of the intense heat of the Tokyo streets, he now felt like he resembled a bona fide human being.

Thus dressed, with the food bouncing at his side and the ancient floor creaking beneath him, he arrived at the closed door with the tarnished plastic doorknob--once transparent and shaped like a delicate crystal--and pushed it open.

He was awake. In fact, he was sitting up--in a sense--and looking far more conscious than Kunzite had seen him in days. He turned when Kunzite entered, his movements hindered by his injuries, but the controlled swiftness still betraying that athletic agility that seemed to come so easily to him. His eyes, no longer dulled by pain and fatigue, shot straight up at Kunzite's face, so sharply that Kunzite nearly stumbled back. No longer were they flooded with the helpless, miserable fear of a cornered animal. Instead, they were hardened into knives of blue ice, a chilling sort of hatred frozen in their depths. There was no anger there, no irrational passion. Just cold, cold hatred.

Kunzite had been around a long time. He had inhabited the depths of Hell--for, he was certain, that was what the Dark Kingdom really was--had seen entire kingdoms crushed to rubble, had seen human beings murdered in cruel and unthinkable ways. Very few things could shake him, he thought. But this... this bitter, icy, relentless gaze seemed to shake him to his very soul.

The room felt infinitely colder now, and he nearly shivered in response. But somehow he managed to collect his scattered thoughts, which had haphazardly strewn themselves about the room in the wake of that terrifying glare, and stuffed them back into place, focusing his mind on something slightly more constructive than squirming like a pinned insect below his Prince's silent wrath.

"Thought you might be hungry," he said vaguely after a sharp clearing of his throat, starting towards the man who sat propped against the crumbling wall. He crossed through the beams of golden evening light, dust motes parting around him before wafting back into their slow, drifting pattern. The dark haired Prince said nothing; merely continued to lock Kunzite beneath those sharp blue sapphires, boring holes through him as though he were no more substantial than the air around him. Despite his weak and disheveled appearance, his somewhat humble position on the floor, and his compromising situation, it seemed as though he was the one looking down on the Dark Kingdom soldier, and not the other way around.

Neither had removed his gaze from the other's eyes, silver stubbornly meeting blue, but now Kunzite broke the contact off, using the action of kneeling down as an excuse to glance away. He looked his Prince over--carefully avoiding those eyes, which seemed to sting him every time he dared glance their way. He certainly looked better than he had before. Color had begun to return to his cheeks, and his breathing did not appear quite as painful. Still, his position against the wall did not look the least bit comfortable, and Kunzite suspected that he was still too weak to help himself much in that respect.

He pushed the bag of food out of the way, leaning forward. "Here, let me--" his hand paused in the process of reaching out, because at the moment his hand had come anywhere near the black-haired Prince, the man started, as if burned. The eyes still bore their inexorable cerulean chill, ever fixed on Kunzite, but his breathing had quickened, and Kunzite could see the rapid pulse pounding in that soft part of his throat. So some part of him really was still frightened, even if the rest of him was fearless.

Kunzite retracted his hand slowly, uncertain of how to respond. Shifting uncomfortably beneath the unceasing gaze, he turned back to the bag of food next to him and busied himself with emptying its contents. The man watched him steadily the entire time, as he focused intently on the task of opening containers and setting them out on the floor.

"Why am I here?"

The question came so abruptly that Kunzite nearly dropped the little styrofoam container of udon in his hand. He carefully righted it, thankful that the lid was still on. "You don't remember me, do you Endymion-sama?"

"Of course I remember you," the black-haired Prince spat. "The guy who tried to kill the girl I--who tried to kill Sailor Moon. How could I forget?"

Kunzite set the container of udon next to the others, watching the fat little buckwheat noodles floating in their sauce. He wondered how he had really intended to finish that sentence before he stopped himself. _The girl you what, Prince? Love? I know you love her. Everyone knows that._

"You never answered my question. What am I doing here?"

He glanced up at the Prince he was sworn to protect--though it was only a glance--before continuing with his task as though it were gravely important. "Because you were badly injured," he answered gruffly. It seemed like a silly answer, somehow, but he could find no other answer to give without launching into an hour-long explanation. And Endymion definitely was not ready for that yet.

The black-haired man seemed to be trying to digest this. "You captured me because I was injured?" He asked, rather disbelieving. "Or do you mean that my being injured is what enabled you to capture me?"

Kunzite shook his head at a container of vegetables. "You were not captured. You were rescued." He set the container on the floor, lining it up next to the others. "And your injury would have left you vulnerable to much more than being transported to the other end of town, let me assure you."

"So this isn't the Dark Kingdom," the Prince said after a few moments of thought.

"Does this look much like the Dark Kingdom to you?"

"Don't know. What does a kingdom composed of slimy, ugly scum, not to mention youma, look like?" The black-haired man asked scathingly.

Kunzite knew he was trying to bait him, but he was not buying it. "Much darker. Hence the name."

"Then what is this place? And what am I doing here, if not in the Dark Kingdom?"

"This is a refuge. And I told you what you're doing here. You're here to recover from your injuries."

There was a tense silence, in which Kunzite found himself lining up packets of soy sauce in a neat row. He could still feel those eyes like a weight on the top of his head.

"Do you expect me to believe that?" It was not really a question, or even an accusation. Merely an observation, made with all the cool sureness of an expert in the field. "You must think that I've forgotten just who I was fighting against before, or that my injuries have rendered me incapable of thinking rationally. You'd be a fool to think that."

"You're probably right in that respect. You may believe whatever you want, but there is much that you don't know yet. Perhaps you should wait to hear the full story before making judgments."

"Enlighten me, then."

Kunzite again glanced up, evenly meeting that glacial stare. "Later, perhaps. When you're feeling better."

"Where are the rest of my clothes?"

"Folded up in the other room. You can have them back, if you like, but I doubt that laying around in a full tuxedo and cape would be especially comfortable, especially given their rather bloodstained condition. I suppose if you undid your transformation, you'd have another set of clothes at your disposal." Judging from the slight flare of anger on the black-haired man's face, this was the wrong thing to say. Of course--Endymion's transformation was the only thing protecting his normal, civilian identity from being discovered. Even without the mask and half of his outfit, he was still protected by that strong magic that protected all sailor senshi, so that even a casual glance at him on the street would prevent his enemies from recognizing him. His Prince probably figured that this was one of the few lines of defense that he had left. Kunzite nodded. "I see. Well maybe we can get ahold of some more comfortable clothes for you later on. Now, I think it would be wise if you got some food in your stomach." He placed a set of chopsticks, sealed in their little paper wrapper, in front of the carefully arranged array of food.

The man's eyes left him for the first time, casting a distrustful glance at the meal that had been laid out before him.

"If my intent was to harm you, I would have done it by now," Kunzite said carefully. "Poisoning your food would hardly be the most efficient means of killing you."

The Prince still made no move to eat, and the white-haired man sighed, gathering up the bag containing the meager portion that would pass for his own meal, and rising to his feet.

"You can't keep me here," the Prince said decisively.

"I don't doubt it. But I intend to try." He stepped towards the door, heavy boots stomping hollowly across the bare floor. "You'd best eat something. You need your strength." Then, without even a glance back at the dark-haired Prince, he retreated to the dark hallways, away from the room with the dust motes dancing in the golden sunbeams.

The moment the door clicked closed behind him, Kunzite slumped against the wall, drinking in a deep, steadying breath from the cool, dark air. That chilling hatred. How could he have remained in the same room as those intense ice-blue eyes another second? If his Prince had been angry, if he had shouted and demanded and flooded the room with righteous anger, that he could take. But this, this silent contempt...

He swallowed, getting ahold of himself. No one ever said that protecting the Prince of the Earth would be easy, after all.

With his hand decisively clenched around the bag, he dragged himself through the gloomy corridor to the adjacent room where he would eat his own solitary meal and figure out how either of them would survive the next few days.


	4. Chapter 4

Resonating Light

By Spirit-hime

Chapter 4

***

The last of the golden sunlight faded into a purplish sort of dusk, deepening the shadows that churned in the corners of the room. The empty food containers were stacked off to the side. He had managed to demolish pretty much every edible dish (as well as some more questionable ones) that had been set before him--after all, if it was going to poison him either way, he may as well eat his fill of it and die on a full stomach.

Mamoru sighed briefly. That man would be back any minute. Would he keep up the whole 'taking care of him' act, or would he get down to worse things? The act had altogether thrown him off; he had no idea what to think about the white-haired man's strange tactics. In fact, everything about him seemed strange to him; he neither looked nor acted the way that he would expect an incarnation of evil to, nor did he seem like any normal human that he had met before.

Mamoru could not help but remember the first thing that caught his attention when he appeared in the doorway--long, white hair, straight and fine, tumbling like glaciers down his shoulders. He had passed the window overlooking the streets, and the sunbeams seemed to flare up suddenly, each silver hair like a tiny prism refracting the light in a million rainbows all about the room. The sudden light nearly blinded him, shimmering all around the man like some mystic aura, and giving him the look of a heavenly being, rather than a creature of darkness. And then he was back in the shadows again, and his hair was once again ordinary--an unusual color and strangely long and fine, yes--but still just a dull white, like unpolished silver.

He was frighteningly tall and heavyset--certainly, he looked especially imposing from Mamoru's position on the floor, but judging by his height in comparison to the door frame, Mamoru guessed him to be quite a bit taller than himself. Mamoru was used to being much taller than most people; at 188 centimeters, his stature placed him well above the average Japanese male. But it seemed that this person could tower even over himself, which was rather disconcerting.

Then he had finally had a look at the man's face, and found that it was no less striking than any of his other features. His eyes were like his hair--a dull, pale silver, but with hints of other shades lurking somewhere beneath the exterior. They were steady and unwavering, a brick wall through which Mamoru could not even attempt to penetrate. His features were thick and strong, like a warrior's, but subtly delicate, creating a powerful sort of beauty that was both strange and exotic. His expression betrayed no thoughts or emotions, not even after Mamoru's futile attempts to drive him to anger. It was as though nothing at all moved him; he was cold and neutral as a machine.

Which left Mamoru with absolutely nothing, because he was no closer to figuring out the white-haired man's intentions than he had been in the first place, other than that for some mysterious reason, he felt the need to get on Mamoru's good side. And then there was what he had called him--Endymion-sama. The reference had not been lost on Mamoru; he had called him by his other name, his old one, which meant that he knew exactly who he was. And he had used such a high honorific with it, as if he were someone of importance and authority. As if he were royalty. Inwardly, he shook his head. This was all very complicated, and even if he could figure out the truth, that was not to say that it would benefit him in any way.

He shifted slightly beneath the blankets, trying to ease the pain in his chest. One thing that could be said for that food was that it did seem to be doing much to help his strength. He had had very little problem maneuvering himself back into a lying position, and rolling over onto his side. He now lay with his back to the door, the blankets drawn up around his arms and the last of the fading light trailing away on the floor before him.

It was true that he knew next to nothing about where he was or what they wanted with him. It was also true that the white-haired man was extremely intimidating, especially after he had seen what sort of power he was capable of. But Mamoru knew that, despite his better judgement, he would not calmly allow himself to be the tool of the Dark Kingdom. Not without a fight.

The hollow tramp of heavy boots echoed down the hallway, sending a tingle of energy down his spine. He hurriedly fought to relax his body and control his rapid breathing, closing his eyes against the darkness. The door creaked open, and he could feel the man behind him like a cold winter frost breathing on the back of his neck. He crossed the room, the silence weighing heavily except for the clomp of his feet and Mamoru's shaky breaths. There was a shuffle behind him, so close to his back that it felt like his hair was standing on end, and the swift movement of hands gathering up the discarded containers sent the air stirring so close to his skin that he was certain the man was almost touching him.

A plastic bag crinkled as it was set aside, the stillness returning and the sound of Mamoru's own heart drumming in his ears. He was leaning over him--he could feel him just above him, so close now that they were almost touching. A hand reached around to pull on the blankets, exposing the man's chest and all the vital organs that lay beneath...

Beneath the thick covers, the man had failed to see the red, red rose resting between his fingers, the petals delicate and half-closed, but the thorns like deadly razors against Mamoru's skin. He made no sound, no warning; just turned with a swift ferocity and struck blindly. There was a pained yelp as the living blade went ripping through flesh and muscle, and Mamoru drove the steel-hard stem in down to the butt of his hand. Hot blood flowed around his fingers, dripping down his arm in dark, crimson beads. It slicked his grip on the weapon, and when he tried to pull it out again, he was forced to squeeze it tightly, the thorns cutting into his own palm. With a snarl, he ripped it out of the man's shoulder, splattering blood on his own face.

He brought the rose up again, trying to strike a second time, but strong hands caught him around the wrists, forcing his arms back. "Let go!" Mamoru barked, writhing in the man's grasp. In his struggles, he managed one last slash, catching the man across his right cheek, and leaving a bloody gash where he had struck. The man's hands clamped like steel traps, and he used his heavier weight to hold him off. Undaunted, Mamoru continued to thrash desperately.

"Stop it! You're going to hurt yourself!" The man shoved him down on the floor, locking Mamoru's arms painfully above his head. The back of his head smacked sharply against the hard wood, the rose tumbled somewhere out of his grasp, but Mamoru set his jaw and glared furiously at the man who held him pinned beneath his tremendous weight.

The white-haired man was barely panting, his silvery hair hanging like a curtain about his face, blood showing crimson against the white. He had changed back into the heavy grey uniform that Mamoru had seen him in before, and the blood was steadily soaking through the jacket, spanning much of his left shoulder like a great red spider. He felt a twisted sort of satisfaction, seeing the shredded fabric and the steady flow of blood beneath, but the man seemed completely unhindered by the wound, and payed it no attention. Instead, he was staring incredulously at the black-haired Prince, some mix of emotions that Mamoru could not understand stirring beneath those grey eyes.

Mamoru's breathing came in ragged gasps, every breath sending a great shock of pain exploding all throughout his chest. Stars burst in front of his eyes, blurring the man's face above him. "Let me go," he hissed between gritted teeth.

"Not until you calm down," the man growled, and Mamoru tried not to wince as he felt his fingers dig deeper into his wrists. Instead he twisted against their bruising grip, refusing to acknowledge his defeat. It was like struggling against a brick wall.

The pain was arching through his whole body, a fire that raged and flared up every time he attempted to inhale. No matter how much he tried to gasp, the oxygen refused to fill his lungs leaving him feeling as though he was drowning on the cold, dark floor. The stars were exploding in his vision, obscuring everything save a blur of pure white hair that dangled inches from his face. He struggled to keep the trembling out of his voice as he mumbled, "I'm... not afraid of you... I..."

Somewhere above him, someone muttered a curse, and his hands were released. Dimly, he thought that this was his chance, but his arms felt so heavy now, and everything was going dark. A callused hand caught the side of his face as his head fell to the side, holding it so gently that some part of him wondered who it could be. "Hang on, don't pass out!" Somewhere, very far above his head, someone was speaking urgently. "Stay with me, alright? Stay with me now..."

Stay with me.

***

Kunzite gingerly adjusted the makeshift bandage around his shoulder before returning his attention to his unconscious Prince. Somehow, he would manage to dress the wound one-handed when he had the time; for now, the hastily bound scrap of fabric would have to be enough to slow the bleeding while he concentrated on more important matters.

Endymion shifted in his sleep as the white-haired man carefully re-bandaged his chest wound. He had been out for the past fifteen minutes or so--just long enough to clean the wound again and change the bandages. He had intended to do this later this evening, but all of his Prince's thrashing around had started him bleeding again, which had been more than a little alarming. As soon as he lost consciousness, Kunzite was certain that he had unintentionally done his Prince great harm in his attempts to hold him still. Even now, he could feel that sense of panic rising in the back of his throat, that chilling feeling of dread creeping along the back of his neck. But for all his panicked checking, the black-haired Prince seemed fine--a little pale and exhausted, perhaps, and just as badly wounded as ever, but no worse than before.

He glanced up at the deep red rose that still lay in the dust where it had fallen. The blood shone crimson on the barbed wire thorns and in the splatters on the floor, so easily matching the petals that Kunzite knew would be soft, tender flesh like living silk against his skin. An interesting choice of weapons indeed.

But no more than he should have expected of his Prince. He inwardly cursed his carelessness. He should have known better, should have realized that his Prince would always fight back, always fight even when all the world was against him and he alone stood defending what was right while those he loved deserted him one by one.

But Kunzite had overlooked this obvious fact, because it was easy to forget that his Prince saw him as nothing more than an enemy, and one who must surely be eliminated. His cheek stung where the rose had slashed it, already growing stiff with the quickly drying blood. He pushed the pain away from himself, ignoring it. There were more urgent matters at hand.

The Prince's eyes fluttered open suddenly, cobalt irises staring up at the white-haired man. "Don't move," Kunzite warned in no uncertain terms. He gently applied the last of the bandages, careful to avoid adding any more pain to what was probably already quite excruciating. The Prince showed no sign of how it felt and instead watched him warily, silently obeying. "Your little stunt was pretty brave, I'll give you that, and if you were at full capacity, it might have even worked. But you're in no shape to be trying to wrestle me to the ground. Your body couldn't hold up under the strain; that's why you fainted. If you're really that eager to kill me, I would suggest waiting until you've recovered from your injuries. Maybe you could try again in a few days," he added dryly.

Endymion scowled at his words, turning away to glare at some distant corner of the room. That served Kunzite just fine; he could really use a break from being glared at.

Several minutes passed before either of them spoke again. Kunzite focused intently on bandaging his Prince's wounds, while the black-haired man seemed to be focused on something else altogether.

"Why would you be acting against the Dark Kingdom?" The Prince asked suddenly.

Kunzite glanced up, only to find himself fixed in that steady blue-eyed gaze. "What was that?"

"You said before that this place is a refuge, that you 'saved' me. Am I supposedly being protected from the Dark Kingdom, then?" The white-haired man nodded, grey eyes locked sincerely on blue ones. "Then why? Not that I believe it, mind you, but I'm curious. As I recall, you were fighting on the Dark Kingdom's side until now."

Kunzite sat back on his heels, never taking his eyes off his Prince's. "It's complicated," he said at length.

"It's complicated," Endymion mimicked in a slightly mocking tone. "How am I to believe you if you won't tell me everything?"

"Alright." Kunzite tightened the last of the bandages and reached for the Prince's hand. The black-haired man tried to snatch it back as soon as he took hold of it, but Kunzite grabbed him firmly around the wrist. "Don't test me," he ordered. Seething, Endymion remained still as he gently spread his hand open and began to clean the cuts on his palm.

"First off, you should know a thing or two about the Dark Kingdom," he began. "The Dark Kingdom isn't exactly what you would call a 'kingdom,' not anymore. I suppose it would be somewhat closer to what you would call an organized crime syndicate, except for the fact that the head boss is a formless mass of energy and rather foul-smelling gas. That creature is called Metallia. She's the demon whose power backs all of the Dark Kingdom. Next one down in the ranks is a woman by the name of Beryl. And below her, were some humans--former humans, I guess you could say--who served to do Beryl's dirty work. These humans weren't there by their own will; not really. Beryl took them, took their memories from them and turned them, so that they were forced to obey her will. But then something changed." Kunzite finished cleaning the cuts and paused to dig around in his well-stocked collection of first aid supplies for an appropriately-sized bandage.

"What changed?"

"The Ginzuishou." He turned back, and began to wrap the Prince's hand up. "When it appeared, it somehow broke through Beryl's power, though I doubt she realized it at the time. The Ginzuishou has been a mere legend on this planet for countless ages; no one is really sure what it is capable of, or what the nature of its power is. Beryl always insisted that it was merely a weapon; some tool with which to gain power over everything. But it didn't feel anything like that. It was like... like feeling alive for the first time in goodness knows how many years, or like being given some precious gift that until that moment you didn't know even existed." Kunzite stopped, suddenly aware that his Prince was watching him, and realized that his hands had faltered and that he was no longer wrapping the bandage. He cleared his throat, and returned to his work.

"So you just... woke up? Realized that you've been doing the wrong thing all along?"

"You could say that, yes." After a few moments he asked, "so do you believe me?"

"Not a word of it."

Kunzite straightened the bandage, then released Endymion's hand. "Well as long as we have that established."

***

Hours later, in the hushed darkness of the night, Kunzite had retreated from the room with stern orders for the Prince to get some sleep. With some difficulty, he managed to get his shoulder all bandaged, and cleaned the cut on his face. He now sat against the sill of the window in the adjacent room down the hall which he had claimed for himself. It was smaller than the other one, and dustier, too. He had not bothered to give it more than a quick sweeping to keep the dust bunnies at bay. The window, as well, was much dirtier, and made the room seem that much darker.

Kunzite did not mind the dark--not usually, anyway. He saw more clearly in it than normal humans, and could feel within himself a sort of kinship; that same deep, chilling sort of power, like the stirring of ancient shadows. But lately he longed for a sort of light, and not the kind that could come from a lamp. He had known that kind of light in his Prince, once. Warm, nourishing light that healed all that it touched and filled him with a sort of... peace, one could say. Endymion had always been the light to his darkness, the one who gave him warmth and held at bay the ice that always threatened to encrust his soul. He missed it. He missed it dearly.

The false artificial lights of the street outside lit him from behind, the strange colors filtering through the dusty glass with an oily sort of texture. His hair hung down around his face, picking up the orangey glow and dully reflecting it back. The red rose lay in his hands, having been confiscated earlier, the stem with its steel thorns now wrapped up in damp cloth, both to protect him from any more cuts and to keep the rose, in all its dangerous beauty, as fresh and alive as though it had just been plucked from a sunny garden. He brushed a finger across the tips of the petals--he had been right about how soft they would feel; like powder, barely tangible. He turned it over in his hands, observing the way that the petals lay half-closed against one another, the way that the tiny network of veins ran through the soft flesh, the way that the color faded from one deep shade of red to another. Here, somewhere, perhaps hidden deep within the many red layers that softly enclosed some secret within, he could feel a tiny spark of that light that he had come to know so well.

The rose was a deadly weapon, but he could see now that it was so much more than that. It was a piece of his Prince's soul, given a form that was both delicate and deadly, both beautiful and powerful. It had taken shape in something that his Prince could see and understand, but the true essence of it, he could sense, had no real form, and could have appeared as anything--a sword, a flash of light, a whisper. But here in his hand was a piece of his Prince, fashioned in the shape that he had no doubt subconsciously chosen, and holding it now, he felt like nothing else could have been more appropriate.

"You haven't told him."

A normal person would have jumped at the voice echoing out of the empty darkness, but Kunzite had felt their presence since that night, and he knew they were nearby. They were always around him now, the living spirits of his three comrades, though he had felt no signs of their existance other than the constant subtly warm feeling of their power next to his, and of the eyes watching his back. Now he could feel them as keenly as he had on that first encounter, as though they had temporarily shifted just a little more into his world.

"No. I haven't."

The darkness fell back, shying away from the motes of light that wafted out from their source. The one who had spoken was Nephrite, and it was he who stood there now. "Why?" It was a simple question, flat and to the point, but heavily laden with all that lay unsaid.

Kunzite turned to gaze at the buildings outside, pushing away the urge to reach out for his ethereal friend, standing a scant few feet away from him. "What would I say to him? That I betrayed him? That I was really supposed to be his friend, his guardian? He already sees me as nothing but an enemy. I couldn't bear him knowing that I'm something much, much worse."

The silence was so complete that, turned away like this, Kunzite could have imagined that he was alone in the room. The brunette gave off no sound--not a breath, not a rustle of fabric, not a creak from the floorboards beneath his transluscent feet. Just dead, empty silence.

"He has to know, Kunzite," he said at length.

The white-haired man nodded, his eyes on the distant buildings outside. He could see well down the street from here, past the crowded residential homes that huddled against one another through the night. "I know. I will tell him. I just wish I had more time, to let him adjust to it. To let us both adjust to it, I guess."

"Seems you've bought some time, just as you'd hoped. If Beryl had any inkling of where you were, she would have attacked long ago."

"Let's hope that lasts." Kunzite turned away from the window, his attention once again on the object in his hands. Carefully, he unwrapped the damp fabric from around the stem. "Look at this, Nephrite." The rose lay flat on his outstretched palms, the cloth pulled open to reveal it in all its deadly majesty. As though attracted to the flower's beauty, the light motes danced like tiny fairies around it, giving it an enchanted, mystical appearance. The brunette leaned over it, his hair falling in auburn waves around his face.

"Beautiful," he breathed after a moment.

"Do you know what this is?"

Nephrite nodded, never removing his gaze from the rose, and Kunzite could see in his face the same hushed reverence that he himself felt. He was studying every detail of it, drinking in every minute facet of its being, because this tiny shred of his Prince's deepest soul may be the closest he would ever be to him.

"He tried to kill me with it," the white haired man commented wryly. "Damn near succeeded, too."

For the first time, he saw his comrade's face light up in amusement. "Giving you a run for your money, is he? I might have expected it."

Kunzite offered a faint smile in return. "Well he's certainly not making things any easier, I'll say that." So much had changed between them. So many years--no, centuries--had passed since they had spoken to each other as friends. They had stopped knowing each other long ago. Perhaps, he mused, their friendship had died along with them on that fateful day. But through the long years of darkness, they still found themselves on common ground, and it was a place where blue eyes flashed like polished jewels. They would always be united here, as comrades and former friends; the guardians of the Prince of Earth.

The brunette's eyes grudgingly left the rose to once again regard his old leader. "Kunzite, what you said before about Beryl concerns me. You're probably right about her still lusting for Endymion-sama after all this time. Now that she knows who he is, she may very well change her plans to include him."

"It would not surprise me." Kunzite carefully wrapped the rose back up--it was somewhat distracting, having such a shining treasure there between them--but continued to hold it fondly. "But you three were also right in saying that she is in no position to defy Metallia at this point. The 'mighty leader' is close to awakening fully--when that happens, she'll have her sights on nothing other than the Ginzuishou and on Earth itself."

"And when that happens?"

"Then there will not be a thing we can do to stop her, and nothing in this world will hide us from her." His thumb brushed across a petal, satin between his fingers. "But the Princess has awakened, and she has all four of her guardians with her, now. If her power is anything like that of her mother's, there is still hope for this planet, and for our Prince."

Nephrite nodded sullenly, casting his eyes across the delicate object in Kunzite's hands. "So the protection of this planet rests on the people of the Moon. Earth has lost her guardians, after all."

Kunzite's silver eyes met his brown ones. "Earth will always have her Prince."

The brunette seemed to be about to say something, but a soft creak in the floorboards brought both of them up short. Hollow silence filled the vast frame of the empty building, but from down the hall, in the room where their Prince should have been sleeping, was the unmistakeable sound of the ancient door with the false crystal knob swinging open with a deep, audible groan.

The two former Shitennou glanced at each other, and Nephrite gave a short, barely perceptible bow. "Then I'll leave you to make sure of that." The darkness moved to fill in in the place where Nephrite had been, and Kunzite was alone in the room.

His eyes lingered in the place where his comrade had stood, adjusting to the sudden loss of light, and the emptiness filling the place where there had once been a friendly face. He turned to the windowsill, carefully laying the rose across it, as though offering a precious gift upon an alter. Then, with one final glance at the delicate object, he did what he was told. He went to make sure of that.

The food must have done him some good, because he was on his feet--in a sense. When Kunzite poked his head out the door, he was met with the sight of his Prince, barely ten paces down the narrow hallway, bare feet standing unsteadily on the dusty floor. Endymion leaned heavily against the wall outside his room, bare chest heaving with the effort, face flushed. His tangled hair fell in his face, strands of black satin that shaded his eyes. Prince and guardian exchanged embarrassed looks--embarrassed both at the situation, and at seeing each other's embarrassment, and on and on it went. The black-haired man appeared, for all the world, downright miserable at his compromising situation, barely able to stand and unwilling to ask the one available person for help. Kunzite's initial instinct would have been to run to his aid, if not for the violent reactions he seemed to cause whenever he went anywhere near Endymion. At a loss for what to say to each other, both could only stand there, staring across the hall at the man who was inexplicably both friend and enemy.

"Do you need something?" Kunzite asked lamely.

Red-faced, he shifted against the wall, staring hard at the floor. "I... I need to..."

Then it finally dawned on Kunzite. "Oh." He moved towards his Prince--not too quickly, for fear of startling him--and gently took him by the arm. The black-haired Prince stiffened instinctively, only to wince in pain as a result. "It's alright. Here." He eased his Prince's arm up around his shoulders, sliding his own arm along his back, hand resting on a bare waist. He moved slowly, like a person dealing with a frightened animal, until all at once Prince and guardian found themselves pressed against one another, Kunzite's uniform rough against Endymion's skin, his strong arm holding the Prince steady. When he had the black-haired man in a steady hold, he felt, almost imperceptibly, his Prince begin to relax. Kunzite carefully led him forward, bare feet padding along the cold floor next to the heavy clamp of boots. "Easy now," Kunzite muttered, wrapping his hand further around the slender waist. "Bathroom's this way."

The two passed together through the narrow hallway, feet moving in time, and in the shadowed places of the building, the darkness swallowed them both whole.

***

I admit to being an ignorant Canadian who has no idea how to estimate peoples' heights by centimeters, but I know that's how they measure it in Japan, so I converted it just for realism (isn't Google awesome?). If you're like me and from a country where you use these crazy things called feet, then I can just tell you that Mamoru's height is about 6'2" here.

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far!


	5. Chapter 5

Resonating Light

By Spirit-hime

Chapter 5

***

They spent the rest of that night and the following day in a sort of shaky, mutual truce. Endymion silently tolerated his apparent captor's presence, though while he made no more attempts at violence, he made it clear enough by his attitude that he was as displeased with his situation as ever. Seemingly deciding that he could not trust a word that Kunzite said, the dark-haired Prince no longer bothered to ask questions, and Kunzite, preferring not to rock the already unsteady boat, offered no more answers. As such, barely more than a few words were exchanged between them, leaving both to their own thoughts.

The white-haired man continued to be a mystery to Mamoru. If he was putting on a ruse, he must have been an extremely good actor. Not once did he slip up on his role as the supposed protector--nothing in his eyes, his body movements, his actions, betrayed anything other than what Mamoru would have thought was sincere concern for him, if he did not know better. He had yet to find a single hole in the strange man's story, which was rather aggravating in itself, though it did nothing to shake his belief that the entire thing was patently false. There could be any number of reasons why the Dark Kingdom needed to lure Mamoru to their side, and the thought of complying with any of them was not even worth entertaining.

When he really let himself think about it, sometimes he considered that it would be nice if the story were true. For the past several months, he had been fighting alone. When the senshi began to appear, he and they were mistrustful of each other, uncertain of each other's intentions. Even as he grew more fond of Sailor Moon, as herself and as Usagi, that uncomfortable question continued to tug at the back of his mind: were they on the same side? Now he knew that they were, and he could not help but think of all the time that they had lost by being so cautious with one another. Even as he had watched one companion after another fall into place by the Princess' side, Mamoru had been left to struggle on his own, coming when he was needed but never rescued in return. Not that he thought that he deserved such protection that Usagi was so fortunate to have, but it would have been nice, once in a while, to think that somebody could be there for him.

But these thoughts were invariably pushed aside, inevitably drowned out by the image of that manic grin framed by silver hair, of that hand--not at all like the gentle one that cleaned his wounds--sent a super nova of energy bearing down on the girl he remembered as his Princess and beloved. That was something he could never forget. This man had nearly killed the girl he loved before he even had a chance to find her, and no amount of sucking up to him, as it were, could erase that.

But in a sense, he did follow the man's advice--he waited until he was in better condition before making another move. He saw now how foolish his initial reactions had been; all it had done was put the Dark Kingdom commander on his guard. But he bided his time, waiting for his wounds to heal and for an opportunity to present itself, and on the third night of his temporary stay in the his captor's care, the opportunity finally made its appearance.

Until that point, he had never seen the man sleep. He knew that he must eat, as he always saved some smaller portion of the food he brought Mamoru for himself, but unless he was catching quick naps on the occasion that he left the room for a few minutes, it seemed to Mamoru that he never once shut his eyes. He began to wonder whether Dark Kingdom people simply did not need sleep like normal human beings. But he soon found that it was not out of lack of necessity that the man had never allowed himself to go into a state of unconsciousness, but due to necessity--that is, there was no way he could constantly keep an eye on Mamoru if he spent several hours a day in an unconscious stupor. But even members of the Dark Kingdom, it seemed, had human needs, and after spending the last few hours looking quite ragged indeed, it was no surprise when the lack of sleep began to catch up with him.

He had been sitting off to one side, sort of slumped in the darker corner of the room, where he had a good view of all the important things to be watching in the room--Mamoru, the window, and the door. The nights got cold here, and he kept his cape wrapped around him for warmth. Mamoru had been pretending to sleep for the past hour or so, and while he did not dare open his eyes to catch a glimpse of the man, he could tell by the subtle changes in his breathing, and by the soft heaviness in the air, that he was drifting off. Mamoru had always been especially good at feeling things about the people around him. It was a skill he had mastered long before discovering that he had any sort of powers that involved magically acquiring a tuxedo. Sensing whether a person was awake or asleep was something that even a child could do--and in fact, it was something that he had known how to do for as long as he could remember.

The man was asleep, but lightly. It would be a few minutes yet before he had slipped into a deeper sleep. Mamoru waited. He was a patient person.

It was close to midnight when he finally dared to open his eyes. He could see the man across from him, a heap of white cape and hair like polished pewter that seemed to dully glow through the thick darkness. He did not stir as the black-haired Prince sat up, as he slid out from beneath heavy covers and padded barefoot across the creaky floor.

He slipped out through the door, but did not dare close it all the way, as it always got stuck and required a forceful slam. He blindly felt his way down the dark corridor, knowing that even in the daylight there was risk of stumbling over an uneven floorboard. As he passed by the other room that the man occasionally used when he was not hovering over Mamoru, he caught sight of the uncurtained window, the soft glow of the streetlights spilling over the bare room. Some object sat there, carefully laid across the otherwise empty sill, and it took him a moment to realize that it was the rose he had used. It was positively bathed in light, refracting the glow of the streetlights like a tiny multifaceted mirror. It almost seemed to... shimmer, as though little lights were dancing all around it. Strange, he thought. He had never seen them do that before. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

But he was wasting time here, so he did not give it another thought. The rose was just one of multitudes that he could conjure up, and he had no problem leaving it. He found the stairs easily enough, but the climb looked dangerous, and the banister seemed unstable. He tread carefully.

He was almost halfway down when his foot slipped on an uneven step, nearly sending a surprised Prince plummeting toward a quick and mighty ironic death. Some heaven-sent instinct preventing him from crying out, all he could do was gasp and grab frantically for the banister. His feet swept out from beneath him, both hands clinging to the aged piece of wood that lurched precariously toward the three-story drop. The rest of him hit the steps with an audible thunk that seemed to positively shake the entire building with its echoes. He continued to cling to the banister even after he had stopped falling, waiting for the pain in his back to subside, and for the inevitable sound of his captor rushing out of the room to find him.

But the hallway above him remained silent, and the only part of him that was bruised from the ordeal was his pride. Imagine, botching up an escape plan because he tripped.

The rest of the stairs passed without much incident, and somehow he made it down to the front door in one piece. The entire way, he had been waiting for some youma to leap out at him, or for some great steel door to come sliding down, trapping him in his prison, but nothing of the sort came along. It seemed that security really was limited entirely to the white-haired man. Interesting.

The door swung open easily at his touch, his hand meeting with little more resistance than the rust on the hinges. He stepped down onto the sidewalk, breathing in the cool night air. Freedom.

***

Her nose crinkled up, as best as such a nose could, at the stench which seemed to permeate the very clothing she wore, hanging around her like a great, foul-smelling fog. Such a filthy smell; how could they stand it? The city was positively saturated with it. If only one could eradicate the source of the odor, smoke it out like so much vermin. The world would be such a lovely place if only it were cleansed of such filth.

It was the stench of human flesh.

But Bromie was not one to complain, no sir. She was a good little youma who did what she was told, and if her highness the queen had ordered her to go sit in the nearest trash bin and wait for the Ginzuishou to be dropped on her head, well, duty was duty, after all.

A trash bin, however, did not nearly compare to the human stink that wafted through the repulsive surface of this vile planet. Her skin positively itched at the nasty smell.

She delicately arched her slender back against a cool slab of steel, reveling in the night air. Stench or no stench, it was positively exhilarating to be out here, with real, living wind on her arms and the tingle of human energy dancing below her, twinkling like so many distant city lights. She had the perfect view from up here, perched as she was on the top of a building undergoing construction. Perfect for hunting her prey.

Human energy. Oh, how she longed for it. The creatures may stink, but my, how good they tasted. A pink tongue slid out of her slimy mouth, wetting moss-encrusted lips. Mmm, she could almost _taste_ it. The very thought excited her, brought a momentary expression of ecstasy blossoming in an otherwise expressionless face--expressionless at least to any human onlooker, who would see only the mud and swamp scum that oozed from every pore, a thin film of earthly muck that streamed behind her like a slug's trail. She was everything rank and gross in nature--the very incarnate of Earth's most base and foul things. The parts of her that did not ooze were home to vermin and parasites, contentedly making themselves comfortable on her skin, in her hair, any surface that could be found. Fungus dotted her calves and thighs, the occasional bloom of tiny poisonous mushrooms sprouting from the putrid skin. Greenish slime--the sort that you find growing in swamps--mingled with the muck of her skin. Insects roamed freely across her body, worms and slugs slithering through her wiry hair. Flies swarmed around her like a black, angry cloud, feeding on the decay of her body. The stinking weeds that tangled among themselves, encircling her arms and head haphazardly, were likely the least sickening part about her. It was a wonder she could smell anything at all, they created such an oppressive funk.

Bromie was a monster to end all monsters. She was the sort of youma that other youma avoided--not so much out of fear and respect for her power, but because even the strongest, most ugly youma of the Dark Kingdom could stand neither the sight nor the smell of her. But Bromie knew that they were all jealous. Her power and beauty stood well above all of them. She was the favored youma of Queen Beryl, the one chosen for this most important mission. None of them, after all, had been entrusted to capture the traitor and the Prince of Earth.

She slid her fingers down her own slender thigh, once again drinking in the sweet air. Her prey was coming, but she was in no hurry. She would enjoy this mission to its fullest. She would attack when the time was just right, when he had stumbled headlong into her tangling web. And then she would be able to enjoy playing with him, doing what she liked until it was time to hand him over to her Queen. What a delicious thought.

***

Mamoru jogged down the back alley, casting a nervous glance around him. He knew he really should be walking normally, trying not to attract attention, but he could not calm the pounding urgency in his chest, urging him away from the danger and closer to safety. He was back in his civilian clothes now, trusting in his powers to disguise him from his enemies, and hoping that dressing like a normal person, rather than a half-naked pseudo-superhero, would make him slightly less conspicuous.

The alley ended at a slightly busier, more well-lit street. He peered up at the signs, not recognizing either of the streets that crossed here. Where in the world was he, anyway? Blast Tokyo for being such a big city. This most certainly was not anywhere near Juuban, and the darkness was not making his search for familiar landmarks any easier. He could not even figure out where the heck North was.

His best hope would be to find a subway and hop on the nearest train, so he could ride the routes around until he found his way home. He only hoped that he had enough cash in his pocket for a pass. Silly him had left his own pass at home, not realizing that he would require the use of a subway while fighting evil.

The black-haired Prince continued on his way, forcing himself into a more leisurely walk this time. If that man was out looking for him, he would be much less likely to spot him if he was not prancing around like a frightened chicken.

He only had to go a few blocks before he saw the telltale signs of a subway station in the distance. Resisting the urge to bolt for it, he settled for a brisk walk, and made straight for the stairs.

He was halfway down the deserted stairwell when suddenly he felt... something. It was like a sinking feeling in his stomach, a sudden queasiness that shot through him. Mamoru shuddered involuntarily, feeling uneasy without quite knowing why. He gripped the handrail, glancing at the street above him and the tiled walkway below, but nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be anywhere near him. He could feel no presence near him, no stirring of human or inhuman movement. The air just did not feel quite... right.

He brushed it off, owing it up to paranoia. He really needed to get back. He needed to find Usako, to make sure she was alright. Everything would be fine if he could just make it to Juuban in one piece.

The echo of his sneakers on the tile was the only sound in that hollow, underground place. It was late; too late for the trains to be running. He should have realized that no one else would be up at this hour. He cast a look at the maps of the train routes on one wall, conveniently located next to an oversized Panasonic ad featuring a lovely pop artist who held up a digital camera as if intending to snap his picture. The banner was a little too cheerfully seductive for his mood, and he chose to ignore the woman's charming brown eyes sparkling down at him.

It was his intent to study the map and at least figure out where he was, but he never got that far. He had barely taken two steps when suddenly it was as though the floor dropped out from beneath him. The entire world lurched like a rowboat caught in a hurricane, confusion whipping through his brain with a tight snap. He fought to regain his senses, but the subway station had dissolved around him, and he was trapped in a warping, twisting vertigo. He vaguely thought that he hit his knees, but he could feel nothing anymore, and there was no ground substantial enough for his knees to hit. Mamoru tried to cry out, but his breath caught in his throat. He was blind, helpless, unable to grasp even which way was up.

Out of the torrent, a deep, gurgling, grating voice began to laugh, though the sound was like a marriage between nails on a chalkboard and slime oozing on a swamp, and was very little like a laugh at all.

"Could this be the Prince of the Earth?" The voice asked, and Mamoru found that it was no more pleasant when it spoke. "You're not at all as powerful as I'd expected."

The black-haired Prince attempted to answer, but his voice refused to come. He struggled against the storm, though he could not even move his limbs. He squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness, trying to force his mind to steady itself, but nothing could shake off the all-consuming disorientation that shocked every nerve and held him prone in his confused state.

That gurgling parody of laughter echoed through his mind again, repulsing him through his numbness. "What a cute plaything you are. We'll have so much fun together, won't we?"

Mamoru attempted to look around and find the source of the voice, but succeeded only in nauseating himself. He could see nothing around him but dizzying swirls of color, bursts of light that seemed a sickening imitation of real light, clinging shadows that threatened to strangle him. He could hardly breathe, hardly move. His brain ceased to function, disjointed thoughts only on the staggering whirlwind around him.

"I wonder how delicious you'll taste compared to normal humans."

Suddenly the storm broke with a tremendous crack. The sickening colors and darkness dissipated, leaving the comparatively blinding light of the subway station in their wake. Weakly, he struggled to stay upright, but his efforts were futile. Mamoru crumpled against something soft but refreshingly solid, only dimly aware of something holding him stable.

The gurgled cry of the voice that had been speaking out of the tempest should have alarmed him, but he was so tired, and everything was so warm and comfortable here. Something pressed him closer against the softness, and he thought there was something distinctly familiar about the smell of it.

"Hold on," someone whispered very close to his ear, and the warm tickle of breath on his skin was so sharply, tangibly real after the distorted illusions that he wished to grab onto it physically, to cling to those words just as they had told him to do, to let them carry him up beyond the storm.

The last thing he remembered was being lifted up, and the sudden sensation of flying.

****

Author's notes: Hey, thanks for reading so far! I hope you've enjoyed reading this.

Somebody brought up the topic of Mamoru's roses in the reviews. Trust me when I say that I have always laughed just as much as you over the silly rose-throwing business. In the past, I've tried to just... avoid them when I write Mamoru. But I finally thought, when I set out to do this fic, that I wanted to explore _all_ aspects of his powers, and it's a wonder to me that the roses are rarely used for more subtle purposes. Or more violent purposes, in the case of the previous chapter. And then there's the neverending question of _why_ the rose, and I don't think this really answers that, but it maybe touches on it a little.

As always, I love feedback. Thanks to everybody who's taken the time to drop me a note.


	6. Chapter 6

Resonating Light

Chapter 6

By Spirit-hime

********************

_So warm... feels so safe here. That smell... what is that? Feels so familiar. Like something lost out of childhood. Something lost..._

"Hey, can you hear me? Just hang in there."

Mamoru dazedly opened his eyes, only to find his vision filled with a shimmering white blur. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, but all he received for his efforts was a sudden wave of nausea and a throbbing headache. He slumped forward, probably would have planted himself face-first on the merciless ground, had strong hands not caught him and propped him gently against the cold wall behind him.

"Easy, now. Better stay still for a while."

A hand came up around his throat, rough fingers gently feeling for a pulse. He was vaguely aware of how vulnerable he was like this, his head tilted back and a hand that was easily large enough to crush his windpipe wrapped halfway around it. But the fingers were nothing but gentle, their intent only on helping him, and he was too weak right now to care whether he was in any danger or not. He closed his eyes against the formless spinning shapes around him, giving himself up to whoever it was that knelt nearby.

"Here. This should help."

The hand disappeared from around his neck, only to emerge again from the senseless darkness with a brush against his own hand. It was taken up, resting limply between two palms, fingers intertwined with one another. And then it was like a rush of cold winter air beneath his skin, as though someone had suddenly thrust a window open on a stuffy bedroom in the midst of a January snowstorm. His senses tingled themselves awake, and he jolted upright with a choked gasp.

One of the hands moved to his shoulder, gently pushing him back again. "Not yet. You'd better just sit here for a few minutes. It'll still take a while for the aftereffects to wear off."

Mamoru stared around him, eyes adjusting to their gradually clearing sight. He should not have been surprised to see the white-haired man kneeling in front of him, but only a few minutes ago he was certain that he had left him behind for good. Now he was here, looking down at him with those even, concern-filled silver eyes, and somehow, after the recent turmoil he had just come out of, the man was a welcome sight.

The man smiled weakly, brushing a stray silver bang out of his face. "You gave me a scare, running off like that. You're lucky I found you before she could get to you."

Something suddenly occurred to Mamoru. Something that was as good as the sudden cold spell for all the power it had in jarring him awake. He was no longer wearing the tuxedo. He was dressed in his normal clothes, and yet this man was still right in front of him. "You know me," he said dumbly, hoping that it was just the so-called aftereffects that could be blamed for his current lack of eloquence.

"Yeah, I do," the man stated simply, as though the black-haired prince had just pointed out that he had long hair. "Are you alright? She didn't hurt you, did she?"

Mamoru began to shake his head, then stopped when it caused his vision to go dark for a few seconds. Head shaking, it seemed, was still not a very good idea.

Fortunately, the man was still doing a stunning job of holding him up. "No more than the obvious, I suppose." The hand on his shoulder squeezed gently, almost reassuring in nature. "Might as well relax. It'll be a few minutes before we can go anywhere, anyway. I can't bring you back until it's safe."

"Can't you, you know, appear wherever you need to be?" Oh, he was going to win awards for his speaking abilities tonight, Mamoru could see that.

"It's not quite that simple. Teleportation can be tracked like any trail by those who know how. It causes an abnormal burst of energy just before the person disappears, which can attract the attention of a lot of unwanted people. It would be like waving around a big colorful banner right in front of your enemies. A teleportation route is untraceable after only a few minutes, but right now she's close enough that she'd be right on our tails the moment we try to go anywhere."

She...? "What was that thing?" He spoke slowly, trying his best to keep the slur out of his voice. If Mamoru was sounding more than a little drunk to his own ears, what must he really sound like to anyone else?

"Just a youma."

_Just_ a youma? "If that was a youma, it wasn't like any that I've run into before."

"That one serves Beryl directly. She's a little more powerful than most of them, but I'm sure that if she hadn't taken you by surprise, she wouldn't have caught you so easily. She's the sort who's only sent out on special missions like this one."

"This one?"

The white-haired man's look softened imperceptibly. Almost sympathetically. "Capturing you."

"Oh." It felt like he should say more than that, but there really was not much to say. Mamoru glanced absentmindedly around their new location, his mind contemplating. They seemed to be in some sort of underground car lot, judging by the dingy cement interior and the decrepit little Toyota hunched several meters away. He did not have a clue how he managed to end up here after his recent location in the subway station, but the silver-eyed man must have had a hand in it. A broad slab of concrete serving as a pillar towered behind him, apparently the thing that held him propped up. Mamoru felt himself fortunate that it was against this that he was leaning, as the walls looked quite damp and the ground beneath them less than clean. There was some attempt at lighting above them, but it was meager at best, and the whole place was like a dank, underground cave.

He suddenly noticed that he had been clinging to the man's arm all this time in an effort to steady himself, though whether the man minded, it was difficult to say. He self-consciously retracted his hand.

Something stirred in his memory. _These humans weren't there by their own will; not really. Beryl took them, took their memories from them and brainwashed them, so that they were forced to obey her will._ Beryl. The next one down from the demonic head boss. If the leader of the Dark Kingdom herself was after him... "Why are they trying to capture me?"

The man regarded him with those silent silver eyes, and Mamoru noticed how they seemed to shine imperceptibly, as though they really were bits of polished silver. But they were not flat like silver; they were deep as pools of mercury, the reflective surfaces hiding the dark, secret things beneath. They were a little unsettling to look at, those globes of liquid mercury, and he had to finally turn away.

"Prince, how much of your past life do you remember?"

Mamoru was silent for a while, trying to figure out how to put into words the snatches of memory that sometimes emerged in his mind. They were like drops of water, fluid in his hand, running out between his fingers before he could capture them completely. All he had were impressions, feelings, half-faded images that seemed vivid one moment and insubstantial the next. "I... not very much. I remember Serenity..." hair like threads of snow white silk, eyes like diamonds, laughing by his ear, kisses soft against his neck, warm in his arms. "I remember a place that had... trees, or... a lot of greenery." Green for miles, green everywhere, the smell of flowers, the thick, sweet smell of flowers, warmth of the sun, grass tickling bare feet, splatter of rain on leaves, whisper of wind. "And a... I think it was a castle." Vivid tapestries of every color, chandeliers that shimmered in the moonlight, haunting otherworldy music, footsteps in a hollow place, soft, sweet-smelling cushions, warm fireplaces and frost on windowpanes. "And..." He tried to grasp at more, but could not. People hovered somewhere in the darkness of his mind, forgotten names, forgotten faces, things that seemed important but had been lost forever. His face fell. For a moment, it had felt like he might remember more. "That's about it. I can't seem to remember anything concrete. To be honest, if you had not been calling me Endymion until now, I would have thought that I imagined that part." Why was he confessing so much to this man? He was a stranger, and a potential enemy, at that. Maybe his defenseless state was having an effect on him. Or maybe he had just never been able to talk about this to anyone--even an enemy.

The man nodded silently. For a moment he seemed almost... disappointed. But the look faded quickly, hidden once again behind the pools of quicksilver.

"I'm sure you remember your relationship with the Princess, but what you may not remember was that it made a few people jealous. Actually," he added with a faint smile, "a great many people." Mamoru had a rather difficult time believing that, but then, he supposed it had something to do with his status as Prince. If he was as important as he apparently had been, then there must have been plenty of people eager to get close to him.

The idea that anyone would be attracted to him for any other reason never really crossed his mind.

"One person in particular was rather vehement about your love of the Princess. It was her own feelings of greed, jealousy, hatred, that drove her to obey the will of a monster from outside our planet's borders, and plot her revenge on the Silver Millennium. That person's name was Beryl."

Mamoru was pretty sure that his stomach had just dropped to his toes. He gaped at the man for a full ten seconds, though it felt what must have been an eternity. "You mean that this woman, Beryl, was..."

"In love with you, yes. Well..." he added after a moment's thought, "I'm not sure whether those are quite the right words for it. Her love for you was not the same as, say, your love for the Princess. There was nothing... pure about it. It was closer to infatuation. Obsession. And her lust for you somehow became synonymous with her lust for the power you could offer her. Beryl, you see, has always been particularly greedy when it came to power of any sort, and the promise of becoming future queen was enough to drive her. Oh, I'm sure her intents were pure in the beginning, but she was dangerously ambitious, and could not settle for anything less than the throne itself and you by her side. People like that are dangerous; they will give up anything for the sake of their goal. Beryl was willing to trade in her life, her soul, her planet, to the promise of a demoness whose only thoughts were on the destruction of our world. That is why Metallia was able to come into power, with Beryl's help."

The black-haired Prince stared at the ground, unable to believe his ears. Metallia... the Dark Kingdom... it had all happened because of him. And he had probably never even realized it was happening. How could he see it, when he was so focused on his Moon Princess? In a way, it was all his fault.

"Hey," the man pulled him out of his reverie, "don't look so downcast." Mamoru looked back up at him, only to see him smiling gently. "If it had not been you, it would have been someone or something else that she obsessed about. And if it had not been Beryl, it would have been some other weak-minded ambitious person. You can't blame yourself for--" whatever the man had been about to say was lost behind a silent curse. Before Mamoru could say a word, he had pushed him flat against the concrete slab, pressing his own body close like a human shield. "Don't move," the man whispered next to his ear, and suddenly Mamoru felt that same cold rush around him, except that it was not blasting through his skin, but wrapping around them, folding them in a sort of chilling cocoon. The room around them appeared no different, but he thought he could detect a sort of shift in the air around them, as though it had thickened to water and moved like a gel to surround them in a small frozen whirlpool.

And then they were both silent, the only sound being the rasp of their breaths in each other's ears. Mamoru was pressed in between the cold concrete and the strangely colder man in front of him, the man's hands planted on the wall on either side of him, legs straddling his own. Their faces were pressed against one another, and the man's breaths tickled warmly along his neck. It was like some parody of an affectionate embrace.

He was so surprised at first that he did not feel that same sickening presence that had hailed the so-called youma's entrance the first time around, but he was soon cured of that. It was lurking somewhere around here, searching for them--he could feel it. He swallowed, silently praying that whatever protection this man had used would be enough to hide both of them from her. Enemy or not, if his apparent companion left him now, then he would be completely defenseless. Maybe he could fight her on a normal basis, but right now he was still reeling from her earlier attempts, and it did not help that he was still weak from his injuries.

Mamoru's eyes drifted closed in an effort to steady his own breathing, strands of silver hair wisped across his face, and again he detected a faint, familiar smell. Something stirred in his memory, something important. _What is that? I feel like I should know it. Something... it reminds me of something..._

"I think she's gone," the man muttered, sitting back again. The smell disappeared, and with it, that familiar sensation. He fought to keep the memory, to grab hold of it, but it was gone before he could glean even a hint of what it meant.

His silver eyes landed lightly on the black-haired man. "We're safe for now. Though she's being extremely persistent."

Mamoru nodded silently. Things were so confusing now; he just could not understand much of anything anymore. There was this whole life that he did not remember, consequences to actions that he could not recall making, people who knew things about him that he did not know about himself. It was quite disconcerting, not knowing everything. It made him feel so helpless.

"How do you know all of this? About me?"

"I know a lot of things," the man replied distractedly, glancing around the dark area as if his eyes could do a better job than his other senses at spotting the youma.

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that you slept with a stuffed horse until you were twelve." He gave Mamoru an amused look. "But I don't intend to spread that one around."

The black-haired Prince did not have a clue whether the man was joking or not, and nothing in his look was giving him away. He hoped that he was.

"And where do you come into all this? A human who served Beryl against his will?"

Something about the question visibly bothered the man. He was still glancing around for danger, but there was a certain edge to it now, as though it was no longer casual, but intended to cover up some other emotion, and Mamoru could not help but feel that he was avoiding his eyes.

"I'm no one special," he answered shortly.

"Much as I'd like to believe that, I rather doubt it. I've seen what you're capable of; I highly doubt Beryl bestows her powers upon every ordinary human being she comes across."

The man went silent, no longer bothering to cover up his unease with his fruitless search for their nemesis. Soft waves of silver hair tumbled into his eyes. He was just... watching Mamoru, his look entirely unreadable, silver eyes shining like impenetrable shields that protected whatever soul may lay beyond.

The black-haired man growled in frustration. "So, looks like we've gone back to not talking. How refreshing."

His complaints were met with more silence. Somewhere above them, the city sounds of traffic echoed dully into the hollow place. Moths swarmed dizzily around the dull lights above them, throwing odd shadows onto the floor and walls. Still the man watched him, gaze as steady as a drowsy cat, all hints of emotion suddenly gathered up behind silver armor. Why was he so impossible to read sometimes? Not just in the way he looked, but in everything. Mamoru could not even feel what his emotions were; not the way that he did with everyone else. Even the most outwardly aloof person gave off an emotional aura that he could pick up on like radar, but around this man his senses seemed to close up on him. When his defenses were up, nothing could tell Mamoru what this man was thinking. Absolutely nothing. It was maddening.

Throwing all caution to the wind, he reached out suddenly and grabbed the white-haired man by his broad shoulders. "I'm sick of dancing around this subject! Give me an answer!" Any other person would have been easily shaken by his forceful grip, but not him. He was solid as a mountain, a big wall of ice and steel that did not give even an inch. But nevertheless he flinched visibly at Mamoru's actions, and the Prince felt just a bit of satisfaction at having forced a reaction. He fixed his own sharp blue gaze on the man, forcing his will against those damned shields that he could never see beyond. "Who are you?"

"No one special," came the flat answer again.

"Bullshit," he spat, though he was not one to throw the word around lightly. "You're hiding something. As pleasant as it would be to believe that you're just some nice guy who decided to turn traitor and rescue me due to an overdeveloped guilt trip, I don't think that's the whole story. Something doesn't add up. Now tell me the truth."

The man was silent for a long time, no different save the hands that were clamped down on either one of his shoulders. Then, softly, "Listen, if you really want to know everything..." he trailed off, because Mamoru was no longer listening. His eyes, once focused directly on the face in front of him, shifted suddenly to the hideous thing that stood just beyond it. He could not describe the being that was lurching, oozing, stinking directly across from him--it could surely be no living creature. The shape was roughly human, but twisted and distorted in all the wrong ways. Some slimy, sludgy substance rolled down its sides, puddling on the ground. Even from this distance--which was far too close for comfort--he could see things crawling across its putrid surface. Most horrifying, though, was the lack of any distinguishable face on the bubbling, festering head. As an aspiring doctor, Mamoru felt he could handle many levels of disgusting that most human beings had difficulty even thinking about. But even he could feel bile rising in his throat at the sight, the smell, the ifeel/i of that creature near him.

The man had noticed immediately the shift in Mamoru's attention, and the Prince could see now by the way that his muscles tightened like a wildcat ready to pounce that he was equally aware of the apparent youma's presence. There was a long, tense moment; the white-haired man kneeling on the ground, every miniscule part of his body poised to strike, the youma reeking behind him, some dripping appendage that must have been an arm outstretched towards him.

And then the man whipped around suddenly, and the next thing that Mamoru was aware of was a flash of blinding light and a violent crash that set the ground trembling.

***

Notes:

Last chapter I erroneously complained that there are few fics that use Mamoru's roses for unique purposes, forgetting all about one of my greatest sources of inspiration, Sophia Prester's Empire of the Sun. I highly recommend it, and I bow down to her greatness.

So yeah, we're chugging along here. Thank you again to everybody who takes the time to leave feedback!


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